


desire can make anything into a god

by Ellis



Series: you don't get to choose who handles your heart [1]
Category: Being Human, Being Human (UK)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-21
Updated: 2013-03-21
Packaged: 2017-12-05 23:12:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/728984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellis/pseuds/Ellis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The nature of all things is to go. Sometimes we are waiting for a reason; other times we pack our bags without knowing why, and then we board the first bus, or the first train, and we’re gone. There are people who believe that we only have a limited amount of time with those we connect with: use it up; move on. This is the nature of many, but not the nature of all. This is not her nature: she leaves, yes, but this has nothing to do with time. There is a reason deeper than the one she tells herself (You deserve better, she says, boarding the first train she finds, ticket in hand) but she sticks to the lie better than the truth because she remembers lies with greater ease.</p>
            </blockquote>





	desire can make anything into a god

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Being Human, etc, etc, etc. The title of the series is from a quote by Tara Hardy; the title for this individual piece comes from Mark Doty's "The Death of Antinoüs".
> 
> This is obviously AU and set about five years after 5x05. I've assumed Natasha's about nineteen during 5x05, which makes her about twenty four when this takes place. 
> 
> (And we'll ignore the fact that, going by actor ages, Dominic is only 12-13 years older than Natasha and would've been anywhere between 18-20 when he found her. 
> 
> But then you could argue he became head of the department at a very young age due to crazy commitment levels and a passion for cleaning up after the supernatural, so... IDK MAN timelines are fun to mess with.)

The most important thing you need to know is that she comes back.

 

She leaves first, of course.

 

The nature of all things is to go. Sometimes we are waiting for a reason; other times we pack our bags without knowing why, and then we board the first bus, or the first train, and we’re gone. There are people who believe that we only have a limited amount of time with those we connect with: use it up; move on. This is the nature of many, but not the nature of _all_. This is not _her_ nature: she leaves, yes, but this has nothing to do with time. There is a reason deeper than the one she tells herself (You deserve better, she says, boarding the first train she finds, ticket in hand) but she sticks to the lie better than the truth because she remembers lies with greater ease. There is something prickly about the truth she has never been able to settle with; there is a certain pain that comes with the truth that sets her teeth on edge, like a headache at the back of her skull or the feeling in the pit of her stomach that something is about to go terribly wrong.

 

Here we are, in the wake of her leaving.

 

Dawn promises a day of cloudless sky and sun, but here and now the dawn has barely lifted its sleepy head; she is already miles away, cooped up in a hotel that He would certainly frown at, though she does not think of this when she books in, or even when she dumps her rucksack on the floor and climbs into bed. She does not sleep well. The bed is cold, the bathroom light is too clinical and void of life; there are noises in the walls that could be insects or could just as easily be her imagination. She turns every shadow into a threat, shoulders tightening if the curtains flicker or appear to move—she has not felt this unsafe in a long time, and is instantly reminded of being seven years old and playing dead on a grimy mattress. Her mind turns the bathroom light into torchlight then; there is a moment where she half expects Him to appear in front of her, grey suit, blue eyes, grim face, reaching for her again and again and again, and she falls asleep to this visionary mantra and wakes up with sunlight streaming in through pale, threadbare curtains, alone.

 

She exists within this sphere of past and present for a while, absently blending the two together to create some sort of liveable space in between. Sometimes there are vampires in her hotel room; sometimes there aren’t. Sometimes she reaches down into the depths of her rucksack and pulls out the cross she stole from him, hand carved, cold to the touch, and sometimes she doesn’t. Days become weeks in which it is easier to pretend that a vampire did not feed on her out of her own devotion to a manmade god; weeks become months where she has not seen the darkest shadows and the monsters that exist within them.

 

She gets a job in a café where the requirements do not go above and beyond serving customers with a smile. She is not expected to lure vampires to their self-made doom, or befriend werewolves. She pours tea and coffee, memorises the menu, mops the floor and wipes tables. It’s numbing in its lack of excitement, but surprisingly stable. Two weeks into it and her hands stop shaking every time the bell above the door jingles to let her know someone new has entered the establishment. Three weeks into it and she’s stopped telling herself that he’ll find out where she is and come looking for her—or that he already knows and is biding his time until he makes his move.

 

Except he doesn’t bide his time; she knows this as well as she knows how to breathe. He does things with startling efficiency and if her absence were truly an issue, he would be here by now, requesting that she sit down with him over tea so that they may talk about what has transpired. And she would say no—then relent and say yes, because he is not a man to be ignored or disobeyed—and she would sit with him and tell him she isn’t coming back, she is happy here, maybe even that she cares about him, that _this_ is why she isn’t coming back.

 

She has a script planned out in her head; the things she’ll say, the things she won’t.

 

But he never comes, so she never has to say it.

 

He does not call her, text her, or leave her any voicemails to listen to well into the pre-dawn hours. Her phone stays silent, save for the days when her alarm goes off to wake her.

 

She does not contact him even when Hell seems to turn Barry into its personal plaything, and news corporations descend to the town to report on its mass suicides and curious goings on. She wants to—she _needs_ to, just to hear his voice, to know that he’s fine—but when she picks up her phone, she ends up throwing it across the room. She stares out of the window and cries. She thinks of him when she tries not to; a man comes into the café wearing a grey suit and her heart lurches in her mouth and she almost breathes his name but then she sees his face and it’s not Him and she has to force herself to take his order with a smile on her face—without asking him if he still cares.

 

Months turn into years.

 

Into five years, actually, but who’s counting?

 

 

-

 

 

She falls in love. (Again.)

 

He is dark haired, dark eyed, and he smiles more than anyone else she’s ever met. He doesn’t keep a yellowing copy of _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ next to his bed; he doesn’t commission hand carved crosses from sources he won’t name. He doesn’t see monsters everywhere he looks, nor does he preach constant vigilance and the benefits of trusting no one. He is kind—he is open with his feelings, open to topics of discussion, talks about his family, his past, his history. He works as a librarian and reads poetry in his spare time; they go to the cinema, they go to Scotland, they go to Europe. He does not question the nights when she wakes up shaking, sweating, digging her fingers into his arms with such ferocity that she leaves bruises; in turn, he has no nightmares at all.

 

His name is James. He speaks French and knows a lot about history and a lot about _things_ in general. He doesn’t believe in monsters, ghosts, or anything supernatural. His favourite author is Charles Dickens; when he tells her this, she wrinkles her nose and tries not to think about Dominic’s scathing reviews of Charles’s work. She’s never read Dickens—instead she smiles and says she might read some of his work; what does he suggest?

 

James says, “ _Great Expectation_ s,” with a laidback smile on his face, and she is thinking—Dominic hates that book. Dominic hates how it goes on and on and on and nothing is ever resolved; his favourite character is Estella; Pip is tolerable at best.

 

Dominic likes _Dorian Gray_ because it demonstrates the true nature of humanity. She repeats this out loud; I like _Dorian Gray_ because it shows you what humanity’s really like, and what temptation does to people. James grins, tilts his head, says, Oh, I’ll give that a read.

 

Please don’t, she thinks. But she nods and says I might have a copy.

 

She doesn’t. Except she goes out and buys a copy, imagines that it’s as yellow as Dominic’s book, and gives it to him.

 

Between this and work, she begins to warm to him. He is utterly normal—refreshingly so. There are days when he comes into the café with a few books and says she should try one or two. Sometimes she flicks through them and picks one she might like; other times she flicks through them and thinks Dominic would roll his eyes if he caught her reading them.

 

She reads classics. _The Iliad_ , _Dracula_ —this makes her laugh; she enjoys it more than she should and wonders just how much of it Dominic approves of, if anything at all—F. Scott Fitzgerald; the list goes on.

 

She learns that she likes Agatha Christie, and Sylvia Plath. Ted Hughes is an enjoyable enough poet. James reads Shakespeare to her and she breathes it in like she’s inhaling air for the first time; she has never known words to mean so much to her. The last words that held any sort of true meaning to her were no care, all responsibility, but now they’re ghosts of a former life and she is learning that caring is not necessarily a bad thing.

 

 

-

 

 

“I love you,” she says. They’ve known each other for two years, and in this time she has practically forgotten about _him_.

 

James looks at her. Says, “I know.” His smile is gentle; his eyes catch in the evening light and her heart skips a beat. “I love you too.” It skips another beat.

 

She thinks—I could be happy.

 

Lying in the dark, her head on his chest, she allows herself one simple realisation. I _am_ happy.

 

 

-

 

 

“Forgive me for calling at what must be an inconvenient time, but I really must speak to you… Ms—do you mind awfully if I call you Natasha, or would that be too presumptuous?”

 

She smiles. Despite the lump in her throat, she smiles. Tucked away in the alley behind the café she’s worked at for the past three years, she exhales smoke and lets the cigarette fall to the floor, crushing it underfoot.

 

“Arthur,” she says, her mouth twisting into a grin, “it’s fine. You can call me whatever you like.” She almost says we’re like family; it catches on her tongue and she swallows it down, tasting ash.

 

The man on the other end of the line laughs a little and seems to relax. She imagines him loosening his tie and sinking into his chair now that they’ve established a sense of informality between them.

 

“Excellent,” he says. “Now, you may be wondering how I came across this number—”

 

“Yeah, actually.” She wonders if it’s pinned to a dartboard peppered with darts. Or if an act of carelessness saw him stumble across it. She wonders if Dominic gave it to him—why he even has it; why he’s calling her of all people—“I am.”

 

“Ah. Well, allow me to explain. In the years since the… unfortunate incident in Barry, the Department of Domestic Defence has been rebuilding what it lost following the equally unfortunate budget cuts. As what you might refer to as ‘second in command’, it’s my job to locate all our previous employees and offer them employment—if they’re interested.”

 

There’s a pause. She forgets to breathe. “What if I… already have a job?” She thinks of the café, of James, of her new life.

 

“By all means feel free to say no!” Arthur sounds cheery, almost deceptively so. She wonders if this is part of a guilt trip, or an act to get former employees to agree to work for the department again. A part of her wonders why Dominic isn’t doing this; he’d be much more effective at it—one word from him and they’d all come running back. “It’s simply that I came across your file—very well hidden, I must add; my, Mr Rook has become all the more proficient in his secretive filing habits—and you came highly recommended.”

 

It feels like the world shifts. Highly recommended. Her throat is dry. She closes her eyes; everything seems to be miles away.

 

“Highly… recommended?” She can’t quite get the words out. The wind whips her hair up into a frenzy; she hunches over and contemplates lighting another cigarette.

 

“Indeed!” Arthur’s voice seems further away. “Your notes said you were an exemplary field agent but that you terminated your service for… an unspecified reason. Or reason _s_.” He pauses. “I’m afraid I’ve never been able to read Mr Rook’s writing—it seems as though he was in a great hurry, which makes it all the harder.”

 

She bites her lip until it goes numb. “He… wrote my notes by hand?”

 

Arthur’s voice sounds like he’s smiling. “Evidently. And then stashed your folder away so deep within the Archive that it was a wonder I found it, really.” There’s a heavy pause; her stomach clenches.

 

“Where is he?” she says before he can ask her another question or say anything else. “I mean—shouldn’t he be doing this? Ringing people up?”

 

“He’s busy,” Arthur answers. “Running the department is—well, there’s a lot to be done. There are a lot of things to catch up on.”

 

Static floods the line for a moment.

 

“Can you come in?” Arthur asks lightly. “Just for a chat—an unofficial one, naturally. We’ll just talk about your options and, well, if part time work is something you’re interested in—”

 

“I’ll think about it.” She will. She won’t. She doesn’t know if she’ll think about it, if she’ll even mention this phone call to James. He doesn’t believe in the supernatural; how will this go down? I have to go to Barry for the weekend; my old company contacted me and want me to work for them again—maybe, I’m not sure yet, I don’t know.

 

“I’ll call you tomorrow. Say… midday?”

 

Arthur sounds hopeful. She isn’t so sure. “Yeah, that sounds perfect—um, Arthur?”

 

“Yes, Natasha?”

 

“I’ll talk to you, won’t I? I wouldn’t feel—I’d rather talk to you than Domi—than Mr Rook.”

 

He chuckles. “Heavens, yes. He’d be most displeased if he knew I’d located your folder. Tomorrow at midday it is. Goodbye, Natasha.”

 

He hangs up. She lights another cigarette to calm her nerves.

 

 

-

 

 

Arthur rings at midday as arranged. Natasha picks up almost immediately; her hands shake but she does her best to ignore that, preferring to think of it as something to do with how she didn’t sleep very well the night before.

 

“Have you thought about it?”

 

She considers saying no, I haven’t thought about it. That would be a lie. She’s been thinking about it for over a day; she thought about it closing the café, over dinner, showering, laying in bed next to James as he recited Shakespeare’s poetry aloud to her in the dark. She wonders if telling the truth—if saying yes, I have thought about it, I have considered accepting—is the right thing to do. Or if she can simply put the phone down and refuse to pick up again—is _that_ an option?

 

She licks her lips and takes a seat at one of the empty tables. The café is mostly deserted; a few of the regulars sit in their usual places, but it’s not busy and it won’t be busy until about one. A new girl works at the counter, flitting between standing at the till and wiping down tables; Natasha was that girl once, but she’s moved up in the ranks in the years she’s been here.

 

“I have,” she answers, drumming her fingers against the table. “I don’t—I’m not interested in coming back, but I’ve thought about… I’ve definitely considered just coming to see you. I mean—I have a life now.”

 

Arthur makes a sympathetic noise. “I understand. Is that going well for you?”

 

“Yeah.” The enthusiasm in her voice surprises her; she likes James well enough— _loves_ him, she corrects herself—and her job is enjoyable in its normality. “It’s not field work, but it pays the bills.” She smiles to herself.

 

“I’m pleased for you.”

 

The thing is—the thing is that he _does_ sound pleased. She remembers him as being slightly younger than Dominic, but he sounds like he’s matured—he sounds like being second in command has done wonders for his confidence. She remembers him lurking in the background a lot—now it seems as though he’s more than happy to potter around in the spotlight, even going so far as to locate hidden folders and tiptoe around behind Dominic’s back to contact the individuals mentioned in the folders.

 

“Thanks.” She smiles again, absently twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “Um—when would be a good time for me to come in?”

 

“Shouldn’t I be asking _you_ that?” He laughs. She laughs too, and it feels pleasant, like hot chocolate warming the pit of her stomach on the coldest day in winter. “Really it’s a case of whatever time is good for you. We’re efficient and flexible; I’m sure I can fit you in.”

 

“I have tomorrow off, if that’s—I can come to Barry tonight and we can do the interview—sorry, no, the meeting—we can do that tomorrow morning.” She bites her lip, considering train times and the price of hotels. There’s the Barry Grand, but that still has memories; she’s sure she can find somewhere else to stay.

 

Paper rustles on the other end of the line. Arthur says, “Tomorrow works. Is ten o’clock good with you? You do remember where we are, don’t you? Otherwise I can just as easily come to you.”

 

Natasha considers the pros and cons. If she goes to him, it might mean having to avoid Dominic in his own territory—if he’s even there. But it would be nice to be back in the Archive again, if only for a little while. If Arthur comes to her… that might be easier. He could be followed. He could be—

 

Fuck it, she thinks, suddenly angry. She has nothing to avoid. “I’ll come to you.” The decision is made, and she’s not one for backing out.

 

 

-

 

 

This is how it goes:

 

She tells James the truth.

 

“My old workplace wants to let me have my old job back,” she says. They’re watching television and drinking wine; she brings it up casually, as though she’s bringing up the weather. “I’m going to get the train into Barry and then attend the interview tomorrow—it’s at ten.”

 

James looks at her meditatively. He wears glasses now, says it adds credit to his image as a librarian. “What was your old job again?”

 

“Ah, office work—office admin.” Close enough. Sort of. If you count all the paperwork she watched Dominic do. “Apparently they’ve not been satisfied with the work anyone else has been doing, and they’re interested in rehiring me because I was good at the job.” She smiles. _Sort of_.

 

He takes her hand and squeezes it; his face is ripe with affection and pride. “Well then,” he says, the corners of his mouth curving into a smile, “go for it. Knock ’em dead!”

 

She thinks of Arthur, of the department’s penchant for defensive training. She probably couldn’t knock him dead if she tried. Still, she smiles. Nods her head. “Will do!” Cheery—like this is a joke and she isn’t at all nervous about tomorrow.

 

She gets up and packs an overnight bag while he stays in the living room and watches the rest of EastEnders.

 

He drives her to the station, kisses her goodbye. She hugs him for longer than is strictly necessary, presses herself to the panes of his body, remembers the feeling of her head on his chest—as though this will be the last time they see each other; silly, really, she’ll see him tomorrow night—breathes him in, then boards her train.

 

 

-

 

 

There’s a Lexus parked outside the station when she steps out into the cool night air.

 

It’s colder in Barry. She isn’t sure why she is; maybe it’s because it’s by the sea. Maybe it’s because Barry is the key to many unpleasant memories; either way, she wraps her coat a little tighter around herself, hunches her shoulders, and holds her duffel bag a little closer.

 

“I had hoped you may have learnt how to dress appropriately,” a voice says, and she turns and slips into a defensive stance almost out of instinct, half out of fear; her duffel bag falls to the floor and her hands become fists. Barry is where monsters roam.

 

Dominic Rook strolls out of the shadows, hands in his pockets, looking as irritatingly immaculate as ever. She can’t remember ever being irritated by his way of dressing, except when he used it to pinpoint precisely where she went wrong with her fashion sense—and here he is doing precisely that. Natasha’s jaw sets; she narrows her eyes and ignores the twist in her stomach, instead bending down to pick up her bag and sling it over her shoulder.

 

He hasn’t changed in the slightest. This annoys her too.

 

She says, “ _fuck_ ,” and glares at him. Then: “Maybe _I_ had hoped that you didn’t do that anymore.” She wants to add something witty, but nothing comes to mind.

 

He tilts his head and surveys her without a word. “It has its advantages,” he says eventually. “Are we going to talk about our hopes and dreams for each other all night, or are you going to get in the car?”

 

Natasha’s eyes narrow further. “Neither. I’m going to get a bus to the nearest hotel.”

 

“I presume you pre-booked a room?”

 

“I—” Her lip curls. “They’ll have rooms left.”

 

“Will they?” His smile is infuriating. “Tourism has risen considerably since the events of a few years ago. Most hotels are brimming with people, even in the winter.”

 

“Are you a tour guide now?” She lifts her chin and smirks at him. “I don’t remember asking for one, and I really need to be on my way. So.” She motions for him to scoot back to his Lexus and drive off. “It was—”

 

Dominic remains where he is.

 

“I know Arthur phoned you and arranged this entire debacle.” He speaks slowly, lazily, taking his time to enunciate each word perfectly. She remembers this from years gone by; it used to terrify people. It makes her uncomfortable. She steels her shoulders—she should have expected this.

 

“Is that why you’re here? Chauffeur service?”

 

He raises his eyebrows and almost smiles. “Not quite.”

 

“Does Arthur know that _you_ know?” She suddenly feels terribly upset for Arthur. Dominic’s wrath is not a good thing to incur; she hopes Arthur is well and good.

 

“No.” He looks towards his car, then back at her. “I’d be happy to continue this conversation in the car.”

 

“I wouldn’t.” She trusted him once. Yet now—after the hotel—“Look, I can get myself to a hotel. I’m not a child anymore.”

 

He appraises her with another look, his mouth becoming a thin line. “I know.” He looks at her then— _really_ looks at her—and she takes a step back. Nobody ever wants to catch Dominic’s attention. “You’re twenty four now. Hardly a child.” His voice is soft, but easy enough to hear above the quiet road. He looks like he’s going to say something else, then—

 

“How did you find out?”

 

“I wouldn’t be very good at my job if I didn’t know everything that goes on in my department.”

 

True. She sighs. Fidgets where she stands, aware of the cold. He’s wearing his typical grey suit— _that_ much hasn’t changed—but doesn’t seem to be cold at all.

 

“I would very much feel better about this meeting if I could at least drop you off somewhere,” Dominic says. He looks at her; she meets his gaze and does her best to ignore the instinctive curl of her toes, the way her fingers clench and unclench, the way her stomach lurches.

 

She thinks about it. She shouldn’t accept, but—this is Dominic Rook. They’ve known each other for— _God_ , she doesn’t know how long they’ve known each other for. _Years_. She thinks of the script she once made, the things she’d promised she’d say to him if she ever saw him again. She thinks of saying them now.

 

He’s still looking at her. His hands are still in his pockets.

 

“Alright,” she says, scuffing the floor with the tip of her trainer. She feels like she’s seventeen again. “Alright. Could you drop me off… um—” She doesn’t want to go to the Barry Grand.

 

“I’ll drop you off at the Premier Inn.”

 

She nods, unable to say anything else. “Yeah, sure.”

 

He takes her bag from her without a word, puts it in the boot with more care than she expects from him. If it were her, she’d just sling it in there—but he places it delicately, as though it could contain something precious, or valuable. She doesn’t say anything, though does manage to say thank you when he goes as far as to hold open the passenger door for her.

 

She thinks of James when she buckles her seatbelt. She thinks of James when she glances at Dominic’s profile and notices he’s had a haircut. She thinks of James and not everything she’s ever wanted to say to the man sitting in the driver’s seat. She thinks of James and not why she left Barry.

 

She thinks of James. Not of Dominic and his unshakeable faith, his devotion to his work, his lack of hobbies, his lack of family. She thinks of James and his cousins in Scotland and siblings in Bangor and how he likes to go fishing. Dominic is a black hole; James is full of light. And yet… Dominic saved her life; he has a light of his own that is sometimes indistinguishable from the darkness with which he surrounds himself.

 

She stares out of the passenger window, watches Barry breeze past them from behind glass. “It hasn’t changed much.”

 

“A testament to my department’s work,” Dominic answers. He says _my_ , not _our_ , which—for some reason—makes her chest ache. She laces her hands together on her lap.

 

“Good to know you’re still around.” She doesn’t think of what she did in the name of the department—the scars on her thigh, the age-old nightmares.

 

Dominic looks at her then; she can feel his eyes on her face. She doesn’t look at him. He says, “I was under the impression you were happy with your current life.”

 

There is a long silence.

 

She sniffs, feigning indifference. “ _I_ was under the impression you didn’t keep tabs on me anymore.” Her gaze returns to the windscreen; she stares at the road ahead of them.

 

Their eyes meet in the rear view mirror.

 

Dominic’s eyes are unreadable. “I don’t.”

 

She exhales, wondering who he’s had watching her, how he’s been pulling it off. The department doesn’t have time for human surveillance—at least it didn’t when she was there, but perhaps…

 

“Well,” she says. “Perhaps our impressions of each other are wrong.”

 

He concedes with a very slight nod.

 

They spend the rest of the drive sitting in silence—until she reaches down and begins to fiddle with the car controls, trying in vain to turn the radio on.

 

Dominic’s face betrays a hint of annoyance when he says, very softly, “Cease and desist in your terrible and inconsiderate handling of my car.”

 

“I’m trying to liven the mood with a little _Capital FM_ ,” she snaps. She turns another dial and presses another button, but is rewarded with the air conditioner blasting her full on the face, numbing it within a few seconds. “ _Fuck_ —Jesus _Christ_ , what setting do you have this on? _Arctic_?”

 

“Stop touching things that don’t belong to you,” he retorts, irked. With one hand still on the wheel, he nudges her out of the way and turns the air conditioning off, reluctantly turning the radio on in the same flurry of hand movements. “I’m not putting _Capital_ on.”

 

“We’re not listening to—”

 

 _Magic FM_ filters through the car speakers. Natasha groans and goes to change the station, but Dominic brushes her hand away from the dial as soon as she gets close to it.

 

“My car, my rules.”

 

She mutters something about how it’s no surprise Arthur disobeys him. He fixes her with a very pointed look, and she says nothing else for the rest of the journey.

 

 

-

 

 

She lights a cigarette while Dominic is getting her bag from the boot. He comes around to the pavement with it in tow, sees the cigarette in her mouth, and frowns. The lights of the Premier Inn illuminate his face and bathe it in clear white light, making his eyes bluer and his frown more prominent.

 

“What?” she asks, blowing smoke. “I’m—”

 

“Smoking,” he says curtly, handing her the bag. “I see it’s a new habit of yours.”

 

“I was going to say _cold_.” She glares at him. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

 

He considers her words there and then, levelling her with a stare. “Yes, I suppose it isn’t.”

 

She wants to say damn right it isn’t, but nothing comes out. Instead she finds herself smiling. “Thank you for driving me here.”

 

There’s a pause as he looks at her, his stare softening around the edges. She expects him to say something, anything, but he remains silent, pushing his hands into the pockets of his trousers again.

 

“You’re welcome,” she says, filling in the gap. “It was—oh, tomorrow, I’m only… I’m only here to see Arthur. So—will you be at the Archive?”

 

“Have you considered that I work there?” He raises his eyebrows and almost looks amused.

 

“What I’m saying— _asking_ —is… pretend you don’t know,” she retorts. “I can come in and talk to Arthur without you getting involved, can’t I?”

 

“That depends,” Dominic answers lightly, “on what you’re talking to him about.”

 

“Catching up, that’s all.”

 

“And you can’t do that over the phone?” He levels her with another stare—this one more curious.

 

She shrugs. “He found my folder and wanted to see how I was. Then he invited me in for a chat. That’s all.”

 

Dominic makes a noise in the back of his throat. “I see.”

 

She doesn’t like the look in his eyes. Turns away towards the Premier Inn’s double doors, says, “I should go—I have to book a room,” and promptly flees into the building.

 

It’s silly that she glances back over her shoulder once she reaches the receptionist desk, but she does, and Dominic Rook is still standing outside, hands in his pockets, watching her with an unfathomable expression on his face.


End file.
